


In a House of Tears

by Shiggityshwa



Series: Watch the Birdie [14]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark Alternate Universe, Dealing With Loss, Episode: s10e13 The Road Not Taken, F/M, Ori, Pre-the road not taken, dark au, orici
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28673721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiggityshwa/pseuds/Shiggityshwa
Summary: An imagined retelling of Season 9 and 10 in the 'Road Not Taken' universe. Fourteenth in an ongoing series detailing what happened in the The Road Not Taken universe before Sam's arrival. Focuses Cameron's fall from grace and Vala's incarceration at Area 51. This story deals with the ramifications of a large loss.
Relationships: Vala Mal Doran/Cameron Mitchell
Series: Watch the Birdie [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1183454
Kudos: 4





	1. I Would Bite

He stays true to his word.

Removes her from beneath the wretched mountain almost two years after his initial promise. Two years after their first meeting, while wearing an orange jumpsuit she tucked her legs beneath her for warmth, for safety, so no one would be able to yank her away and to somewhere she didn’t want to be.

The weather is balmy, much hotter than she’s used to. He calls this season ‘summer’, where the wind barely blows and when it does, it’s humid, picking up pollen from flowers and trees creating a haze in the air that makes the atmosphere appear as steam. It’s unusual because she’s only seen this planet amidst a snowstorm, hidden at night, or drizzled in reflective rain.

It’s their first night in the house together. The wooden floors shiny and bare, the kitchen clean, complete with a fridge and an oven, but no hearth or cauldron. There’s also something called a washing machine and a dryer. She has no idea how to use any of them. The bed is just a rectangle form, which he promises he’ll make up after supper.

Their day ran long, being evicted from the mountain, signing papers indicating that she will pretend that the Tau’ri never laid a finger on her when they touched her with several, when they dissected her, and removed a life from within her, while gassing her into compliance leaving her with a nasty grin of a scar and shock of a situation that she hasn’t begun to realize.

Her body still shakes under the wake of negative pressure, of still being tired and hungry for two people, of no longer fitting into clothing that fit her before, but without a concrete reason why. He is more than understanding, categorizing her weakness as a side effect from the narcotics they were injecting her with until her arm swelled and bruised under the attempts—but it’s not.

It’s from her body wanting to give up. Having nothing left to give after being abused by various people. It’s about her mind having to force the fatigue from her limbs and her heavy head as she helps Cameron pick out a sheet pattern, about needing to answer him when he asks what she wants for supper on her first free night, because they should be celebrating, this should be a celebration—but she has none left in her.

She sits in the backyard, on a stiff cushioned chair, the wind tingling the soft hairs on her arm as the trees grow black against the fading sun. The house beside them isn’t as close as in Ver Isca, they have a fence running the perimeter of the yard, and several shrubs and plants growing against it for privacy. However, she can still hear the light jingle of some device hanging on the neighbors back porch.

The door was left open at his behest. He told her that it would cool down the house, which was a bit muggy, and when they first opened the red front door, it stuck in place. He explained that in hotter temperatures like these, paint tends to go sticky and wood tends to stretch, and that at night they should be hearing the groans of the house settling in the cooler temperature.

She knows the real reason is he was hesitant to leave her on her own. To allow her to be alone in their house for the first time. To be alone without eyes on her for the first time in two years. There were days when she holed herself up in that Ver Isca row house, days when he was marching and teaching the other soldiers how they might kill the Tau’ri—how now she wishes he would’ve been more diligent at his job—when she felt watched despite having the door locked four times.

Days when she would be wary of what she did indoors and the words she spoke to her own stomach.

As the gentle jingle sings from beyond the privacy bushes, she feels the strong sting of tears in her eyes.

But the front door squeaks open, and through the dim light of the house, she can see him yank the keys out while shifting a crinkling brown bag to his opposite hand, balancing it precariously, before using the heel of his sneaker to knock the door shut behind him.

Doesn’t even put down the bag or his keys before he turns and locks the door, the same four locks bringing so much familiarity to a galaxy and a planet that doesn’t want her.

Part of her is relieved when she hears the locks click into place because, ever true to his words, he’s keeping her safe. Even his presence is relaxing, not only because she knows to what great lengths he’ll fight for her, but that just having him, his familiarity with her, is a form of safety.

“Hey, I got dinner.” He nudges his shoes off at the front door, by a braided rug they also bought in a store that she doesn’t remember buying. His socked feet step out, and then across the wooden floors into the kitchen which sits just inside the back door. “Sorry it took so long. There was a line-up at the drive-thru.”

Her fingers brush against her arm, and she feels the bumps begin to form across her skin. The wind stirs up, one gust, one arctic gust and the memory of crunching her boots over snow so clear.

By a winding path in a medieval city, over the dry dusty tundra where she watched an aircraft spiral and crash. The touch of cold glass under her hand as she tapped, trying to get the man inside to allow her access to the craft to help him.

The burst of searing heat through her chest and the sight of her own blood splattered against the dark metal of the craft. Fingers, malicious fingers, digging their way into the wound for over a year to gain power, superiority, compliance.

Always seeking submission, because without it, there is no clear victor, and one cannot be equal with an outsider.

The loss of life from within her, crying out in a single wail that she reached her hands for despite being held weighted under a mask, despite having her body torn open and bleeding all over the table.

A single wail was all she got.

No smile, or blink, or sigh.

No tiny hand reaching towards her finger to grasp for her the way she grasped for them, before they subdued her, forcing her to breathe in more gas with each of her struggles. Not caring if she died as a casualty along the way.

Her body still holds what she assumes are phantom labor pains, cramps within her empty body because it would be around this time that their daughter would have been born naturally.

She felt conflicted leaving Ver Isca, where only the ignorance of the villagers threatened them. They were malicious, they were uneducated and ingrained in a religion that they didn’t choose. If given the chance, some of them, like Seevis, may have been swayed to the side of reason and a proper uprising could have happened.

Instead, they returned to Earth—his planet, where he feels more comfortable because he knows the customs and protocols, knows what’s acceptable and what is not, already knows the people and in his naively optimistic mind, he though that if need be, he thought the secrets he could spill would shift the power behind them.

What he didn’t think of was the nature of the people he comes from.

While the villagers suffered from the education denied to them and obeyed only the rules they were told, the Tau’ri have an abundance of education, technological prowess radiating out into the galaxy, and instead of searching for companionship, for further learning, for partnerships or even charity through altruistic actions on lesser planets, they conquered their technology and used it for war, used it to hurt, and maim, and kill.

Killed threats against them, Anubis, the first Prior all lonesome on that planet, and left as a martyr.

Then the innocent.

Killed what they didn’t understand because they didn’t have the communication capacity to listen, because they’d been reared to be violent, to be physical, to be malignant like a virus taking over all before them.

“I didn’t know what you wanted.” There’s banging from the kitchen as he digs through half-emptied boxes of dishes and appliances. Essentials they picked up while at an indoor bazaar he called a department store. “So, I just got you a Big Mac and fries—How do you know about McDonalds?”

His voice is only vaguely in her ear, over the din of crinkling newsprint meant to protect breakables. Over the wind rustling the leaves of their shrubbery sounding vaguely like the icy ocean waves on the frozen beaches where she grew up. Over dissonant noises in her head, swarming like a cloud of locusts, so loud she can’t make out a word, can’t make out a single word.

Can only hear a baby’s cry.

“Hey.” His thumb caresses against her cheek, as he brushes a kiss into the scar half buried in her hair, the scar that changed the periphery of her hairline with a white slash. “You okay?”

“Yes.” Nods, blinking away her tears, breathing in deeply to stem the pain in her abdomen. “Sorry.”

“S’okay.” Grins, happy, innocent, a rare find on this planet. Full of love, full of safety, and a growing number of vendettas collecting within him, slowly dyeing the color of his soul. He kisses her again, this time softly on the lips. “I got the food set up inside.”

“Can we eat out here?”

“See the clouds over the horizon—” he points passed their privacy fence and the house with a backyard adjacent to their own to the mountain peak where the orange-hued sky diffuses into bitter dark clouds “—the wind is picking up too.”

“Meaning?”

He pulls his lips tight, means to question her reaction, but when she doesn’t bring attention to it, he clarifies, “it’s gonna rain soon.”

“Does that matter?”

“Weatherman on the radio said we’re in for a hell of a storm tonight. Listen—” keeps her quiet with a hand on her arm, and she hears the same leaf rustling, the same jingling as before “—the neighbor’s windchimes are going crazy.”

“Cameron, I’ve been kept prisoner under that mountain for the last two months. The rain against my skin is more than welcome.”

He nods stiffly, just once, and raises from where he’s crouched beside her chair. “I’ll go get the food.”


	2. Again Discarded Faith

It’s not easy for her to settle in the house at night.

On waking, it takes longer than it should for her to recognize where she is, what planet she’s on, and who is beside her.

Sometimes her rousing is so violent, that he starts awake beside her, and softly rubs his hand down her arm to get her to settle. Speaks to her about what they did that day in order to get her to remember.

Sometimes she wakes and she doesn’t know who she is. If she’s Qetesh, masquerading as Qetesh, or some third answer concerning her waning personality.

However, sometimes she remembers immediately, rising from their bed and moving to the ensuite in order to shower, and when he comes back from his morning jog and starts to shave in the mirror, she starts to scream because she doesn’t know who he is.

It’s not like this everyday, but enough days that it puts a strain on their relationship, whether he is willing to admit to it or not.

He still manages to calm her down each time, somehow speak to the humanity that’s left within her as she investigates the slash in her stomach. 

Sometimes he asks her if she remembers the baby.

Sometimes she responds by asking him if he does.

They don’t speak of their daughter at first because the trauma is still fresh, still healing, and they’re learning how to gravitate the living arrangement they find themselves in. Not tiptoeing around the subject entirely but working not to bring up what happened directly.

Supposes he doesn’t know what happened because his people—those at the SGC—would have only told him the barest of details in order for him to keep a semblance of his rationality.

Once they’ve been in the house for a few weeks, maybe even months—she lost count of days although he keeps a calendar on the wall in the kitchen. She knows the names of the weekdays and the months thanks to Dr. Jackson, whose name causes her to flinch in memorandum of the last few moments she had with her daughter. Knows how to operate the basic appliances, tries to keep up her side of the commonalities by keeping a clean house, or by trying to cook a meal, but sometimes she truly doesn’t want to get out of bed, despite still being plagued with bad dreams of masticating flames.

Sometimes the fog within her brain clarifies enough that she can have fun with him. That they can go for a walk arm in arm, wave to the neighbors, and kick their feet through the summer grass that still holds a sickly-sweet scent to it.

They can sit out back on clear nights and watch fireworks blaze across the sky in some unwarranted celebration. The bright colors pinwheeling over the stars, and she wonders what it looks like from space.

But some days she stays under the sheets, her head imploding with the imagery of many lifetimes, her body aching in memories etched into her skin, if she gets up, her head feels heavy, like someone has reigned her in and tied her to a post, like she is tethered to the bed.

He offers her food, any that she wishes, offers to set up the couch for her to lay on so that she might be distracted by the television and the various programs that the Tau’ri use in order to blind themselves to the heinous actions of their government, of their planet. Programs speckled with bright and flashy advertisements that hurt her eyes, and when she closes them, she sees fire, sees another fleet of Ori ships being constructed in a similar canyon, sees villagers fingers blistering under the creation of war machines they do not know the potential of.

Her eyes start to burn from what she expects are tears, her body grows hot with fever, and nothing ever seems to change.

Until one night while on the couch, curled up with her head in his lap, and his hand stroking her hair absently as he explains what life insurance is because the commercial keeps replaying, her body grows fervent with the heat, with the memories, the ache all the same, and she tears at the blanket covering her body, kicking it away as if her own heat will light it flame.

She bolts up beside him, first sitting, then standing, and he mimics her, stands at the other end of the couch, watching her with his mouth slightly agape.

“I’m sorry.”

Apologizes although she’s well aware that he’s used to her behavior by now. Used to her antics. Normalizes taking her out to the indoor bazaars and the outdoor green spaces and answering all her questions about different Tau’ri implements, about the need to consume everything, or make everything beautiful, or give everything a predestined purpose when sometimes things are just meant to be unorganized and chaotic.

Things are just meant to be natural.

Which, perhaps, is why they get along so well.

He doesn’t force her into the pre-set standards labeled by his people, and she doesn’t hold their mistakes as a species against him.

But he doesn’t answer her, staring at her still, and she can almost see his exhalations from his unhinged mouth. See the way his fingers twitch at his side against the knitted blanket with birds he calls ‘pheasants’ patterned on it.

“What?”

Would decorate her additional question with the bows of pleasantries if only they were not so natural with each other. If she hadn’t seen the map work of scars embedded in his skin, in his thigh where he told her his people placed a metal rod in order to give him mobility back. Where he had to learn to move and be natural too.

As if he hadn’t seen the gaping scar ripped across her abdomen, watched her stare at it in her reflection after she stepped out of the shrouding mists of the shower, like he doesn’t fall asleep angling behind her, his body flush with hers, his hand curling around her stomach and his finger tracing the scar in memorandum of the life that was there.

“Your eyes—” reaches a hand forward to her, and she allows him to touch her cheek, to tilt her head up.

And she feels the sweltering heat swirl within her like a whirlpool of flames.

The face, the mouth, and the teeth following her wherever she lands, still planted within her, still sprouting fire and war.

Blinks and there are so many ships floating in the emptiness of space. Searching for something they don’t understand but basking in the admiration of ascended beings they have no solid proof of. Bobbing along in an intergalactic battle on the buoyancy of belief and nothing else. The idea that there can only be one solid good, unaware that should they attempt to pass through the Supergate again, they will be obliterated seconds after materializing.

But they’re searching for something.

As the realization hits her, the heat dissipates from within her, tingles throughout her body, snuffing out in her fingertips.

“Your eyes—” speaks again, his thumb pad coarse against her cheek “—they were orange for a second.”

Swallows harshly, pursing her lips, trying to appear calm when she is anything but.

“Orange?”

“Yeah, they—” he laughs softly, as if to himself, and shakes his head. His hand places pressure on the back of her head, suggesting that she might bow forward, and when she does, he plants a kiss on her scar. “I’m tired, I must have imagined it.”

But she knows he didn’t.

Because she didn’t imagine it either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's King John


	3. All the Rest is Mute

The dreams of fire.

Of rage and of war.

Of self immolation.

Grow in strength and occurrence.

Wakes drenched in sweat with the sheets soaked and sticking to her skin. Sometimes she has to untangle herself from his hands, fingers twitching over her stomach. Other times he’s turned away from her, only his shoulder bared to her, craggy with scars in the lamplight sieving through the gossamer curtains.

Peels the blankets away from her body, groggy with sleep, hungover with the slideshow of images flipping through her head. The drone of an Ori vessel, the weight of a religious robe, the heat of the sun against her back midday as she’s shackled against the bench in the middle of the Ver Isca village square.

Trudges into the ensuite, simple fixtures of a counter and sink, a toilet, and a tub and shower combination, new enamel shining, no lip or stains.

Her eyes illuminate in the room, like the soft and gentle lick of a single candle flame.

Don’t cause her pain, but experiences, suggestions of feelings, of violence and aggression gobbling up innocent lives like a glowing plague.

The tile is cool under her feet, and she doesn’t bother to flick on the light switch since she’s nearly waking every other night with these dreams. Takes her usual seat on top of the closed toilet, waiting for the heat, the malice, to dissipate.

But it doesn’t.

Sometimes she can sigh, relax her body, and breathe out the rancor immediately.

Sometimes it takes a little longer, and she taps the pad of her foot against the floor in distraction. Fingers the soft cotton of a new towel hanging on the rack. Distracts herself by trying to remember Tau’ri terms she’s learned that day, then that week, then that month.

But this time, the heat courses through her, making each tip of her finger glow under the nail, painting her body in a glittering warmth like a freshly glazed pot just removed from the kiln, and she starts to panic.

Jolts up from the toilet, slipping the door lock into place before turning on the shower, ignoring the golden reflection of herself in the over the sink mirror, until the glass fogs up. Slowly peels away the nightshirt and panties glued to her skin, heavy with sweat, leaving them on the ground and stepping over the side of the tub into a stream of lukewarm water.

Her skin sizzles under the cascading water, steam not from the temperature of the water, but of her skin, mists the inside of the shower, slickens the blue tiles. She turns the temperature of the water cooler, then colder still.

Leans with her head against the tile, trying to relax, trying to categorize memories, filing through them, searching for one to rely on.

Over the sound of the shower, of water dripping from the curtain and her body, the crackle of her body eating up the cold, is the shaking of the door handle, the one she smartly remembered to lock before climbing half-awake into the shower.

The shock, the domesticity of it, of her husband, a man she never truly married on this planet or any other, might wake up in the lapse of her in bed, notice the washroom door was shut and try to open it, try to check on her, calms the rampant temperature in her body, and soon the water flushing down her back becomes cold as the icy fields she played in as a child, beside rivers so clear that often she found herself just stepping into them by accident.

The temperature quickly becomes unwelcoming, and she switches back to lukewarm for the remainder of her shower. Of scenting her hair with liquid perfume again as she did as Qetesh. Of scouring her body of sweat and dry skin, over mottled bruises still buried beneath her skin.

Over one grinning scar.

When she steps out of the washroom, the soft cotton towel tucked tightly around her as she strangles another through her mess of hair—shorter than it’s ever been in her life—he’s sitting on the end of the bed clad in white boxers, looking as concerned as she’s ever seen him.

He stands, holding his index finger and thumb and inch apart. “I was this close to kicking down the door.”

Part of her is tired of the charade. Of acting like everything is perfectly fine and that she hasn’t suffered in any way in the last two years. She wants to tell him fully how she feels. How she should be excited to live with him in what actually constitutes domestic bliss, that they can spend the days together, learning of each other without the constant strife that’s become so common. How she wants all that, but she can’t settle because she feels like his government is going to come after them again, and all they would have to do is immobilize him and she would disappear into the depths of their mountain once again.

Wants to tell him she still senses the Ori with an odd link she can’t explain, like there’s still a tether connecting her to the other galaxy. How when she thinks about how their daughter was carved out of her, it fills her with a rage so hot it burns her from the inside out. How if the Ori asked her to, she could be so easily convinced to lead an attack on this planet out of a pure vendetta.

Out of a carnal hatred.

But she knows him.

All of him.

Including the secluded part within him, that even though he is devoted to her, is still more devoted to his race, to his country, to his government.

“And what made you so angry you would to want to do that?” Addresses him over her shoulder, as she pads with poise over to the vanity he purchased for her—presented it to her with such excitement, that she did the best to match his mood, but is still relatively unaware of what the piece furniture is for other than housing the majority of her toiletries.

In the dark blue hue softened by snuffed lamplights, she observes him observing her in the mirror as she reaches for her brush, absently pulling it through her hair, more curious if he’ll accept her serve at switching the topic, of brushing away the lingering need to discuss what he wants.

“You were in there for a long time—over an hour.”

“I was just enjoying the water pressure, Darling.”

“Don’t do that.” His attention turns away from her, his back slouching, his elbows dragging over his thighs.

Tears the brush through the ends of her hair, setting it down, and bracing herself, her back to the mirror, somewhat eager to have him look at her again. While she may have reasons to be secretive and preoccupied, she doesn’t like it when he feels unimportant to her. “Do what?”

“Lie to me.”

“I’m not—”

“Vala, cut the shit.”

Expletives sometimes leave his mouth, mostly in surprise or on accident. Mostly to other men he’s guided her away from while still housed in the mountain. This is the first time that he’s cursed at her directly, and the heaviness of the words clogs the small room, the steam drifting out of the ajar ensuite door, the curtains pulled across the open window while summer insects chirp in the bushes outside, everything boxing her in, shackling her down, keeping her captive in an entirely different location.

Instead of having an earnest discussion, her response is weighted with her lingering fear of being sacrificed again by the only person she’s trusted that she can remember, she digs back at him, aggressive in her defense. “I thought I was free to do as I pleased in this house—”

“It’s not about—”

“That as long as I was contained within this property line, I could shower, or sleep, or cook what I wanted—”

“I just want to make sure—”

“Because I’m still not legally allowed off this property without a government licensed escort, which—”

“I’m not mad at you.” His interruption isn’t interjected, rather, almost a whisper in dejection, and, as by the tone in her voice, he’s aware that she’s not going to budge on the subject. He abandons his need to know why and what she was doing so long in the washroom, so early in the morning. “I was worried about you. That’s all.”

Resigns himself to tell her the truth about his outburst, a tricky little game he plays to try and guilt or goad her into divulging some truth about herself that would otherwise go unstated without his digging. Sometimes this tactic is successful, sometimes it is not.

This is one of those latter times.

“I got hot while we slept.” Her fingernails burrow into the painted finish on the vanity, designed to appear worn. “I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I went to shower. I locked the door because—”

“Vala, you’re right—” he waves a hand as if to clear the stench of her compound lie from the air “—This is your house too. You don’t have to explain to me the reason why you want to do what you want.”

Finds that her grip against the vanity is fading, the anger, the heat from her body, the steam from the washroom, diffusing at his words.

“I just got up, and you weren’t here, and I thought—”

He orphans his sentence. Shaking his head and standing, pulling the heavy, puffed up comforter from atop the bed, reeling it in against his chest, folding it mechanically, until it’s tucked in a tight little square that he carries to the closet, and reaches up onto a higher shelf to place securely.

The muscles in his back tense over the splatter of scarring, the newest still a dull red at the small of his back where Tomin shot him. Where she scooped him into her lap, and sat running her fingers over his cheeks, his nose where the bridge still has a noticeable dip from breaking, pleading with him not to leave her, because she was terrified for herself, for their daughter, and she knew they wouldn’t find a way out without him.

Knew, despite all the promises made, that if all of them didn’t make it out of Ver Isca, none of them would.

Just never thought it would be their daughter who took the brunt of the sacrifice.

He leans into the closet door, stressed, pained, his forehead rolling against the freshly painted trim, and she approaches him, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her head against his back, to let him know she understands the verity in his words.

“I know, Darling.” She settles her chin against the bulk of his shoulder and presses a soft kiss to his skin.

They’re never going to get over what happened—separately or together.

In one of their brief conversations concerning the actions of his government and the subsequent ramifications, he told her that the loss of a child would result in mandatory psychiatric visits for more than a year, that the burden of carrying on living while their offspring does not is to heavy to be explored so quickly, and while he wants to know what has been done to her—asked her several times, all of which she refused to even acknowledge to answer him—he doesn’t want to talk about what it’s like to lose a child.

Not with her.

Not with anyone.

So, they navigate each other very carefully, trying to smooth out ruts in their attitudes, in their temperament, because although neither is willing or wanting to have the conversation about their daughter, no one in this world, or any other, will be able to fully comprehend what they are experiencing.

How each day they wake up under the shroud of happiness before remembers what’s happened and where they are now, how they cry both separately and together for a child they both initially did not want, and actively sought to terminate. They became so attached to her in mere months that they gave up their own health, their own bodies, to seek security for her.

Regardless of if they’re upset with each other for living in such close quarters again without the addition they were expecting, or if he grows impatient with her for not knowing the Tau’ri meaning behind something, or if she looks him straight in the eyes and cannot remember his name until hours later while panicking in a locked bathroom, they still need each other.

They’ve been through so much together in such a short time, that although sometimes it’s hard to smooth over the edginess they both have—and for good reason—they still need each other.

Sometimes it’s just as simple as not talking about something that will upset the other.

Sometimes they pretend that nothing happened when everything did.

Sometimes they revert back to what they know and where the solace comes from.

Sometimes, despite not wanting to, she lets him kiss her, and run his hands over her scarred skin, and nuzzle his nose against the area where his people tore their child from her as he trails lower, his lips hot, and her body trembles for several reason, memories of being pushed forward, of being held down—memories that don’t involve him, but sometimes she hardly knows his face enough to separate him.

But she knows this is a way he seeks comfort, so she sacrifices that part of herself for him. She holds him to her as he settles, his forehead drenched in sweat and his breath humid against her skin, while he peppers kisses over her chest, tracing upwards, seeking her lips, smiling into them, kissing her into the night. Allows him to thrust into her, to come inside of her, because there are no more ramifications.

Air rarely turns to gold once in a lifetime, let alone twice.

“Come on.” Pulls on his shoulder, breaking contact and stepping back towards the nearly naked mattress. “Let’s go back to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's All's Well That Ends Well

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Story title borrowed from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing


End file.
